I started this short story last summer while flying back to the U.S. from London. And that's where it's set, London. I'm thinking of submitting it to a contest, but I don't know if it's good enough. The narrator of it is supposed to be British, and I'm worried that it's really obvious that it was written by an American, and that I'm just trying too hard or something. I'm also kind of unsure about the accents (one character is supposed to have a Cockney accent, and I'm pretty sure I butchered that; I watched EastEnders for reference, lol) It's been a good challenge for me, though, even if I ended up failing completely.

Here's the first paragraph. If you want to read the rest of it and give me suggestions, PM me.

It was near midnight. Angie saw the man out of the corner of her eye. He was fairly young, twenty-five or twenty-six. His hair was cut close to his head and he was sporting a scruffy beard. He was leaning against the brick wall outside the pub. The sounds of the drunk, screaming football fans carried through the door and down the empty street.

He was staring at her with his narrow, squinted eyes. Angie hurried past, clutching her purse tight to her chest. After she'd gone about a block, she chanced a glance behind her. He was no longer leaning against the wall. He was following her, hanging a few meters behind. Her heart began to pound. She started to run. Her heels rattled and clacked against the cobblestones of the sidewalk. The man's strides became quicker. Another block travelled. He was gaining on her. She was terrified. They came to a busier cross-street. She turned down it, praying that someone, anyone, would see her and help. The man was getting closer and closer. Her feet began to burn with sharp pain. Her shoes were not meant for fast pursuits. Suddenly, her ankle twisted beneath her, and she stumbled. She managed to steady herself against the nearest wall, as she kicked off her hindering heels. She began to run again, wincing with pain at every step. The man was right behind her. Her ankle hurt fiercely, but she desperately pushed on. She tried to scream, but her voice caught in her throat.

She felt a hand grab the back of her coat, and another one reach around to cover her mouth. She fought and kicked and bit as hard as she could, but the man was just too strong. She was a small girl; she really didn't stand a chance. She yelled at the top of her lungs, but nobody heard her. He was pulling her away, into a dirty, dark alley. There was alcohol on his breath. Angie panicked. She was helpless, absolutely helpless.

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"The wise man belongs to all countries,
for the home of a great soul is the whole world."
-Democritus